


The Only Heaven I’ll Be Sent To

by Nighthaunting



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: M/M, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, bjorn is my sad son, i hurt my own feelings with this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6796774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nighthaunting/pseuds/Nighthaunting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bjorn, remembering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Heaven I’ll Be Sent To

**Author's Note:**

> “I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies, I’ll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife. Offer me my deathless death, Good God, let me give you my life.” Hozier – Take me to Church

The dreams are the worst part of it, Bjorn thinks. To sleep quietly and be woken when he is needed–-when Fenris calls, and Fenris always calls–-wouldn’t be so bad if not for the dreams.

The Iron Priests do not understand the nature of the cold sleep, not as those who experience it do. Bjorn would ask them why he dreams, if he were any other man, but he is not. He does not ask. He is afraid, in part, that they are not meant to happen.

The dreams are the worst part because they blur the past with his present, but the pain that they bring is never enough to make him want them to stop.

—

_Bjorn wakes. He can smell_ _frost in the air and the scent of pine and smoke._ [No, he can’t, he’s nose-dead in his box. If he could smell anything it would be machine oils and the musty air in the depths of the underhold.] _They had banked the fire before sleeping, and now with the dim light filtering through the cave mouth Bjorn could see it needed wood badly, but couldn’t seem to find the will to move just yet._ [He cannot move, he’s in his sarcophagus.] _He is so warm, between the still-glowing embers of the fire and Russ curved against his back beneath the furs._ [He is cold–cold–cold. Russ is gone.] _Someone needs to feed more wood to the fire, though, and Bjorn has listened to Russ’ snoring enough that he can tell the Great Wolf won’t be waking on his own any time soon. He gets up, finding his heavier over-tunic and cloak, and tends to it._

_When Bjorn turns back to the bedroll they’d shared Russ is watching him; slowly sitting up to stretch and shake the ground dirt from his furs before throwing them over his shoulders again. The fire dances across the beads and gold in Russ’ hair, and warms the last vestiges of sleep from them as they quickly clear their campsite. They will reach the standing stones at the Boughreach by mid-morning. There is something Russ wants him to see._ [Bjorn wonders if Russ knew even then that he would be leaving. He wonders if Russ’ attention was only a test. Bitterly, in the dark, he sharpens his doubts and fears into hatred. Any weapon he can lay a hand to, now, is better than nothing at all.]  _They banter in the early light, setting out amongst the trees again._ [Russ’ voice rings in his ears ’…how diligent of you…’ and his tone is teasing, yes, but considering also. He had to have known. Bjorn hates him.]

_He’s never been to the Boughreach before, and Russ stands with him at each stone as he reads the inscriptions. It is an honor that he should be brought here. Going from stone to stone with the proper respect takes the entire day. They camp again, beneath the stars this time; Bjorn asking questions while Russ grins at him over the fire._ [Bjorn loves him. Not just as an Astartes to their Primarch, or a man to his Jarl, but as much as one person can know and love another.]

_It is night, and the stars are a billion diamonds overhead-–Fenris’ skies clear of storm clouds is as rare as the springtime-–and Bjorn turns to Russ, warm beside him, and kisses him clumsily._ [If he could scream he would, but all he has is silence.] _Russ gathers him closer and rubs their cheeks together and–_

—

Bjorn wakes. He hears the chanting of the Iron Priests first, and then, distantly, the grinding of his own chassis. Fenris calls, and he answers. He puts his will into _moving_ and the clumsy shell of his Dreadnaught responds.

He hates this. He hates Russ–-as dearly as he loves him. No one else can say as much, nor will they.

“ **WHAT IS THERE FOR ME TO KILL** **?** ”


End file.
